


If You Were in Touble

by CoffeeAndDreams



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Bond notices everything, Caretaking, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Q needs a hug, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeAndDreams/pseuds/CoffeeAndDreams
Summary: "If you were in trouble, would you come to me?"The question surprises Q. The answer surprises Bond.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 141





	1. Chapter 1

Bond had been watching from a distance for weeks now. Watching and adding to a worryingly long list of things that were off about his Quartermaster. Every time he came back from a mission, he’d find Q alone in his workshop, rather than main Q branch. It was a place he retreated to when the noise and commotion was getting to him—a safe space where he could retreat into his own brilliant mind and solve problems that only a half dozen people in the world could solve. But the Q that Bond was observing wasn’t taking a productive deep dive into a project in his workshop; he was hiding and isolating himself. He had been for weeks, the only question was why. His cardigan hung loose on his frame and even from across the room, Bond could see he’d continued to lose weight while he’d been gone on his latest mission. Q hadn’t noticed Bond hanging in the doorway (another oddity to add to his list), so 007 made plenty of noise walking into the room to avoid startling him.

“Welcome back,” Q said. “Equipment?” There were purple bags under his eyes and stress lines that Bond was pretty sure had sprung up overnight. 007 placed his gun, phone, and watch on the table for Q’s inspection. He downloaded some information off Bond’s mobile before handing it back to him. “Well done, 007. Thank you for returning your kit in working order.”

“If you were in trouble, you’d come to me, right?”

“Excuse me?” It wasn’t just the question that had caught Q by surprise; it was how it was delivered. Not in Bond’s typical flippant, teasing, manner, but with an earnestness and, dare Q say, concern that made Q blush. The frown on Bond’s face deepened and he crossed his arms across his chest. Q felt his heartrate pick up, and he kept his sight on the spot where his fingers had frozen on his keyboard.

“I’ve been watching you for weeks now,” he said.

“That’s a bit creepy,” Q said, hoping humor would diffuse this disturbingly serious conversation 007 seemed to want to have. But the agent wouldn’t be deterred.

“Something’s going on with you, Q. You’re exhausted, pale—paler than usual,” he added when Q was obviously about to interrupt and point out that he’s always pale. “You’re not yourself and whatever it is, it’s getting worse. So I’ll ask again: if you were in trouble, would you come to me?”

“To make it better or worse?”

It didn’t derail Bond, but it did earn him a little smirk. However, Q knew how futile it was to try and get 007 to drop something when he was on a mission, and right now his mission seemed to be Q. The Quartermaster took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed to get wearier before Bond’s eyes, and the agent sighed and took Q’s empty mug off his desk to fix him a cup of tea. When it was ready, Bond wheeled a chair over so he could sit at eye level and not loom over Q.

“Thank you,” Q said, taking the mug and wrapping his hands around it. It was uncomfortable to be under Bond’s scrutiny—it was Q’s job to observe and assist him, not the other way around. “It’s nothing serious,” Q said.

“But it is something.”

“I don’t…it’s not something you need to worry about.”

“It’s personal then. You wouldn’t be so hesitant to tell me if it wasn’t.” Bond’s eyes narrowed like he could somehow read the younger man’s mind. Most of his theories had been work-related: bureaucratic woes, one of the other agents harassing him, he’d even gone as far as worrying that Q was being blackmailed over something. Bond had simply assumed there was someone he could threaten, intimidate, or (worst case scenario) make disappear. A knot formed in the agent’s stomach when it occurred to him that it might not be that simple. “Are you sick?” Bond asked quietly.

“No, nothing like that,” Q said, and he saw the older man relax a little. He really must look bad if 007’s mind had gone to something as dire as illness. “I…promise you won’t say anything to—”

“Not a word to anyone.” As much as the two of them teased each other, Q knew when the agent was serious, and when he met Bond’s eyes he knew what he said next would be held in confidence. It made Q vaguely nauseous to think about sharing his problems with Bond, but it might be a relief to share this burden with someone. Bond was right about one thing—he’d been getting worse for over a month now. How like Bond to assume a worst case scenario; the truth was so much more mundane, and Q worried that Bond might actually laugh when he learned how pedestrian Q’s problem actually was. Yes, 007 would roll his eyes, maybe make a sarcastic quip or two, and then be on his way. So, as embarrassing as it was, he’d tell Bond the truth, face a bit of ridicule, and get the agent off his back. Q took a deep breath and looked down at his hands.

“I um…I occasionally have some issues with depression. Nothing terrible,” he added quickly, “And…well, I suppose I’ve hit a bit of rough patch.” His face flushed with shame and he couldn’t raise his eyes. He was shocked when a large calloused came to rest on his knee. Well, that was unexpected. Of all the quick mental scenarios Q had run, quiet support hadn’t even made the top 20. Q swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath through his nose, willing himself himself to calm down. He would not cry in his office at work—he the MI6 Quartermaster and he simply _would not_.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” Bond said like he’d read his mind. “I assumed it was work-related.” They needed to continue this conversation, but this was definitely not the place. “What sounds good for dinner? I’ll pick something up and bring it to yours.” Q looked up but couldn’t seem to come up with an answer. “Nothing sounds good to you, does it?” Q shook his head and Bond stood. “That’s fine. Will you be able to leave at a reasonable hour?” He nodded dumbly. “Then I’ll be there at 7.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond shows up at Q's house with food, a theory, and some much needed TLC.

A few minutes before 7pm, Q was pacing a hole in the floor wondering why he agreed to this in the first place. He told 007, James bloody Bond, that he was depressed and now one of the world’s most elite assassins was coming over to…to do what exactly? The entire interaction from earlier felt like some kind of strange dream. Q felt like he’d been putting up a fairly good front despite how poorly he’d been feeling, and if anyone was going to notice something was off with him, Q would have expected it to be Moneypenny or R. He never would have thought it would be Bond. He supposed that it was the man’s job to figure out people’s weak spots, but it was usually to exploit those weaknesses rather than soothe them. That had been unexpected, as was his own reaction. He couldn’t deny how isolated he’d felt, how good it felt to have someone inquire after his wellbeing. A sharp knock on the door startled Q out of his thoughts. He opened the door let Bond into his flat.

“Q,” he said, coming in and taking a paper bag towards the kitchen.

“Um, just…just uh, put things…wherever.” Bond smirked at Q’s uncharacteristic fumbling. He knew that flash of honesty from Q earlier in the day was an anomaly, that his walls would be firmly back in place by the time he saw him again. Bond unpacked the takeout he’d brought.

“I just got some soup and sandwiches. Nothing fancy.”

“Thank you,” Q said.

“You’re welcome.” Q’s eyes narrowed like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop—a barb or sarcastic comment, something. Always perceptive, Bond put a hand on Q’s upper arm. “I can actually be nice, you know.”

“It’s not that—”

“It is, and it’s fine. I’m not known for altruism, but I really am here as a friend.” Q nodded and kept his sight on where Bond’s hand was resting on his arm. It was something Bond had noticed earlier—that touch seemed to freeze Q on the spot. It was something Bond had seen before, but he wanted to get Q to eat before asking him about it, so he patted his arm once when he let go and started looking through the cupboards for plates. Q opened the refrigerator and grabbed a couple bottles of beer, earning a nod of approval from Bond. “You’re still in your work clothes,” Bond said.

“Hm? Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Go change. Then we’ll eat.”

Well, Bond had certainly dressed down for the evening. The only time Q had seen him in something other than a suit had been MI6 issued sweats while Bond was doing physical evals. He’d arrived at Q’s house in a navy sweater and jeans, still somehow looking impossibly put together, but comfortable and at ease. Q was too tired to try and even and find something fashionable, settling on some worn flannel pants and threw his favorite grey sweater overtop of his t-shirt, even though it had holes worn in the cuffs and the hems were fraying all over. When he shuffled back into the living room, he found Bond had spread their dinner out on the coffee table and was flipping through channels on Q’s television. It was an oddly domestic look for the agent. For his part, Bond felt an automatic rush of fondness when he saw Q come in looking like an overgrown, sleepy child.

“Hungry?” he asked, hoping his face didn’t reveal just how amusing he thought Q looked in something terribly close to pajamas.

“A little.” Q sat down on the edge of the sofa, not nearly as comfortable as Bond, despite being in his own house. He picked up a takeout container of soup and a spoon and took a bite. He moaned in appreciation and Bond smirked.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“It’s amazing,” Q said, taking another bite.

“I get it from this little shop around the corner from my flat. Sometimes it’s the only thing I want when I’m in London, especially if I’m not feeling well.”

It was hard for Q to think of Bond as ever not feeling well—hungover, angry, maybe even grieving, but he couldn’t really envision Bond under the weather or depressed. It was an interesting thought and one that Q continued to think about while he ate, gradually getting more comfortable with Bond’s presence next to him. Once Q finished his soup, Bond slid his over and exchanged it for half of Q’s untouched sandwich instead.

“You sure?” Q asked.

“MmHm. Eat.”

“Thank you.” Q didn’t need to be told twice and ate the second bowl as quickly as the first. “Thank you for dinner, Bond.”

“You should call me James.” When Q looked at him in question, he explained. “I’m here as a friend tonight. It might help separate things from your work headspace.”

“James,” Q said like he was testing it out before nodding and settling back into the sofa. Bond stretched his arm across the back of the sofa, but he was careful not to touch Q yet.

“How long have you struggled like this?” he asked.

“You mean this time around, or…in general?”

“Either. Both.” Bond took a swig of beer.

“In general, I think always. This time, it’s been getting worse for about six weeks.”

“You hide it well.”

“Not well enough it seems,” Q said.

“How long will it last?”

“If it holds to pattern, another two weeks of not sleeping or eating much and I’ll come down with some kind of cold or flu that will knock me out. I’ll sleep for four or five days and then it will go back to being this low fog lingering on the horizon.” Bond ran a quick mental check trying to remember any periods of sick leave Q had taken over the last few years. “I take medication and it helps but…it’s not perfect.” It was a lot more than Bond had been expecting Q to reveal. His hand was very near the back of Q’s head and he reached up slowly worked at the knotted muscles in Q’s neck with his fingertips.

Q froze when he felt Bond’s fingers begin massaging his neck. Fingertips gently circled the knots at the base of his skull. It was both wonderful and overwhelming, and Q closed his eyes, focusing on the way his muscles loosened and relaxed. For the first time in ages, Q felt his thoughts begin to slow down, work worries fading. He let his head dip forward, giving Bond better access to his neck, but jerked his head back up when something wet splashed onto his hands—he’d been crying. When did that start?

“You okay?” Bond asked. Q sniffled and covered his hand with the hem of his sweater so he could dry his eyes and wipe of his glasses.

“Sorry. I don’t know why that happened.”

“You’re touch-starved,” James said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Q looked at him like he’d sprouted a second head. “When people freeze up at the slightest touch it’s because they’re either touch-starved or suffering through it; I’m guessing it’s not the latter with you.”

“It’s not,” Q whispered. He swallowed back more tears and shook his head. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to see me like this. I never meant for anyone to see me like this.”

“Did you ever think that might be part of the problem?” Based on the look on Q’s face, the answer was obviously no. “You know the easiest people to get intel from when I’m in the field?”

“Impossibly leggy blondes?” James huffed a laugh.

“Lonely people. People who are hungry for a little kindness. You show them the smallest bit of affection or comfort and they fold like a house of cards.”

“Are you implying I’m a security risk because I don’t get hugged often enough?”

“No,” Bond said, rolling his eyes. “But I could help you, if you’ll let me.”

“I am not sleeping with you, James.”

“That’s not what I mean. Though you shouldn’t rule out sex with someone—it might be good for you.” This time it was Q who rolled his eyes. Bond stood up and gestured for Q to do the same. He could tell Q was nervous, nearly at the limit of what he was able to accept. In fact, when he stood in front of Q, Bond could see he was shaking. Bond had worked very hard to not allow any looks of pity or sympathy to show on his face, but he was finding it more and more difficult as he was getting a clearer picture of just how bad Q was feeling. “I want to try something. If you want me to stop, just say the word.”

“Bo—James, what are you going to—”

Q stopped immediately when Bond wrapped his arms around him and pulled him into a hug. Q stiffened and almost pulled away. He wasn’t sure if the feeling was pleasant or not. His skin seemed to tingle and there was a pressure in his chest. Incrementally, Q leaned his head forward until his forehead rested against Bond’s shoulder, but his arms remained limp at his sides. James slowly rubbed a hand down the length of Q’s spine until he heard a gasp. He loosened his hold and tilted his head down.

“What’s wrong?”

“This might make me cry,” Q said. James snuck a hand in between them and slipped Q’s glasses off his face, tucking them in his pocket, before he tightened his hold.

“Mm. I’d be more surprised if you didn’t.” He could feel the younger man fighting the competing urges to surrender to or resist the comfort he was offering. Every muscle was constricted like a spring, teeth clenched, and while his arms still hung at his sides, his hands were clenched in tight fists. Q’s breath grew shallow and James put a hand on the back of his neck.

“Stop fighting,” Bond said quietly.

They stood there for a couple minutes longer while Q tried to force himself to settle down. His nerves felt raw and being hugged for the first time in as long as he could remember was overwhelming his system. But underneath the crushing intensity of it, was a warmth that he desperately needed—where the fog didn’t feel quite as suffocating. Q slowly, hesitantly raised his arms to loop around Bond’s back.

“There you go,” James said. He hated that his hunch about Q was right, but he wasn’t that surprised. Isolation was a side effect of their lifestyles, but it had always been different between Q and Bond. From the moment he met him at the museum, Bond saw something in Q—brilliance, aloofness, and superiority in spades, but a heart that was unusual in their line of work. He’d risked his career and his life multiple times simply because Bond had asked, not to mention the little acts of kindness: staying on coms long after his shift was over because Bond was still in the field, backing him on a high risk move with M, being in the office on his day off because Bond didn’t like to debrief with anyone else. A tremor wracked Q’s body. “I’ve got you,” James said, and he finally felt the fight leave Q’s body. He sagged against Bond and finally managed a deep, shaky breath. Bond had been called a heartless bastard more times than he could count, but when Q started to cry, he felt an actual tug in his chest. He carded his fingers through the hair at the nape of Q’s neck and rested his cheek on Q’s head. He felt Q’s shoulders shake with quiet sobs, and Bond vowed to pay better attention in the future so Q never got this bad again. The crying slowed and Bond was absorbing more and more of his weight; Q was almost asleep standing up. James eased them apart before taking Q’s flushed face in his hands.

“You back with me?” Bond asked. Q nodded, but he was half-aware at best. “You’re dead on your feet. You’ve got to get some sleep.” Q nodded again and let himself be steered towards his bedroom and eased into bed. The mattress dipped when Bond sat down on the edge. “Your glasses are right here on the bedside table,” he said.

“Thank you.” It was barely audible, but they were the first words Q had spoken in over a half hour.

“It’s no problem,” Bond said. He narrowed his eyes, trying to get a good read on the situation, unsure if he should leave and give Q some privacy or trust his gut and stay the night. Ultimately, Q made the decision for him when he reached out and grabbed Bond’s wrist. “Okay. I’m going to turn the lights off and come back. Need anything?”

Q shook his head and James made quick work getting the house ready for the night. By Bond’s standards, it was still quite early, so he grabbed a couple things off Q’s bookshelf that had potential. Q was still awake, but just barely, when Bond came back into the bedroom. He toed off his shoes and settled on the opposite side of the bed on top of the blankets, leaning against the headboard. Q rolled onto his side, facing James and closed his eyes. The moment Bond’s fingers threaded through Q’s hair, the younger man sighed contentedly and Bond smirked, tucking that bit of information away for future use. Out of nowhere, one of Q’s cats hopped up onto the bed and tilted her head as though confused about this strange scene in front of her. She crawled up and settled into the space between the two men, but her gaze remained trained on Bond—she’d make a decent interrogator with accusatory eyes like that.

“We’ll get him back on track, right?” Bond asked the cat. She curled up into a tighter ball and finally stopped staring at him. “Of course we will,” Bond said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We come to the end. Q wakes up well-rested, but nervous about letting Bond see him at a low point.

Consciousness came back to Q slowly the next morning. He’d slept deeply and without interruption—an almost unheard of luxury for him. The sun had risen, but he could hear rain pelting the roof, so it was difficult to tell what time it was. He should probably roll over and grab his mobile to check the time…but he was warm and content and not feeling terribly inclined to move or keep his eyes open. Just as he was trying to decide whether he should go back to sleep until his alarm went off, or just wake up and face his day, a hand came to rest on top of his head. Bond! He’d completely forgotten about Bond. Q’s eyes shot open and he looked to his left. Bond was stretched out on his bed, leaning against the headboard, scrolling through news stories on his phone. If it weren’t for the stubble on his face, he might have looked like he just got dressed. Undoubtedly Q had a brilliant case of bedhead and puffy eyes. His jaw cracked when he yawned widely and Bond glanced down with a smile.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said.

“What time is it?” Q asked in a hoarse voice.

“Little after six.”

“Did you sleep?”

“MmHm.” He didn’t elaborate on where he slept or for how long, and Q didn’t feel like finding out. “Any chance I could talk you into taking a day off?”

“What do you think?” Q mumbled. Bond chuckled and ran his fingers through Q’s hair. The younger man closed his eyes and sighed. “You know I’m not actually a cat, right?”

“You do an awfully good impression of one,” Bond said. “Go back to sleep for a few hours at least. If they need you that badly, they’ll call.” Q hummed in agreement, already halfway back to sleep.

The next time Q woke he was alone, but the other side of the bed was still warm, so he hadn’t been that way for long. He shuffled out into the main part of the house and could smell tea and coffee. Bond nodded and Q sat down at one of the counter-high stools just before a hot cup of tea was put down in front of him.

“There’s an appalling lack of food in your kitchen,” Bond said, leaning against the kitchen counter and taking a sip of his coffee.

“I eat most of my meals at Six. I’m surprised you found coffee to be honest.” Each swallow of tea helped Q wake up; by the time he’d finished half his cup, he nearly felt human. He was well aware that Bond was watching his every move even while he tried to look nonchalant. Now that he was awake, Q was starting to feel embarrassed about the last twelve hours.

“How are you feeling this morning?” Bond finally asked. Q swallowed nervously and cleared his throat.

“I feel…actually, I feel quite a bit better.”

“Good.” Bond waited, knowing there was more.

“It’s the best I’ve slept in ages and my um, mental state, is better. I do hope it’s not going to create a problem between us at work. I normally pride myself on my professionalism; last night was an uncharacteristic exception.”

“Q, I told you I was here as a friend last night. 007 might be an arse, but I like to think James still has a little bit of basic human decency.” So that was why he’d wanted Q to use his first name. Q locked eyes with him and nodded.

“So, you’re saying I can still expect the same arrogant, smug, irresponsible, one-man wrecking crew on your next mission?” he asked. Bond raised his coffee mug in a toast.

“Thank you, James,” Q said sincerely. Bond came around the counter and looped and arm around Q’s shoulders, leaning down to speak quietly in Q’s ear.

“Don’t wait so long next time, Q. You’re not a machine.” Q let his forehead rest against Bond’s shoulder. “You feel the fog start rolling in again, you call me, understand?”

“Understood.”

Three days later, Bond was prepping to leave for a mission in Morocco. He waltzed into Q Branch like he owned the place and stopped in front of Q’s desk. The younger man looked better, and his fingers were flying across the keyboard at their usual insane rate of speed.

“Ah, 007. You’re late,” Q said, sliding the standard kit with Bond’s gun and radio over to the agent. “I have a new piece of tech that’s ready for a field test. Interested?” The quirk at the corner of the agent’s mouth as all the confirmation Q needed. “This,” he said, handing Bond a wristwatch, “will emit an electromagnetic pulse that’s activated by leaving the date pin pulled for ten seconds. It’s a death sentence to anything electrical within a fifty-foot radius—maybe up to a hundred feet. Should an opportunity present itself, I’d be interested in getting some feedback.”

“I’m sure I’ll think of some novel way to put it to use,” Bond said, strapping the watch on his wrist. To Q’s relief, things weren’t awkward; the two of them fell right back into their normal professional roles.

“And do bring the equipment back in one piece, 007.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Good luck out there, Bond.”

“Quartermaster.”


End file.
